


Centripetal Force

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-03
Updated: 2006-08-03
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Wanting it doesn't guarantee it's yours.





	Centripetal Force

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Allie for the beta.  


* * *

Centripetal Force

The air is still, weighed down by the sweat of a hundred pulsating bodies and the curious smell of lilacs and vodka. Arousal perfumes the atmosphere. It always does in the wet, hot muggle clubs she picks for their rendezvous. It’s cloying, overloading his senses, and turns the dull throb of excitement into a sharp sting that moves up and down his spine. From a pocket in his trousers, he produces a pack of half crushed cigarettes. A flare of a lighter, and it’s lit, the smoke curling like a ribbon in front of his eyes before it dissipates into the darkness.  
  
Standing at the gleaming, polished bar, track lighting running along its surface and illuminating the foreign faces around him in strange patterns, Harry pulls a long drink from his bottled ale, its condensation sticky on his hand, and leans back on his free elbow with mock casualness. A spotlight sweeps across the room, cutting into the shadows to reveal swirling dust and bodies crushed together. He tips the bottle in his hand, taking a swig as his eyes scan the dark, crowded dance floor rapidly. He knew she would be there, on the dance floor, as she always was. Usually dressed in something far too revealing that stirred conflicting reactions in him; the first to cover her completely in thick robes, and the second to slide the indecent garments down her shoulders, his mouth following. He takes a long drag. The first reaction was no longer his to feel and the latter, he knew, always won out.   
  
His gaze finally settles on a lone figure amidst the crush on the dance floor, red hair unbound and tangled, miniskirt slithering against her circling hips. Her eyes are downcast, a smile on her lips, and she sways beguilingly as smoke from a fog machine swirls around her.   
  
If she notices his presence, she doesn’t let on, and for a moment he is content to watch her, imagining the feel of her under him, her skin hot and sticky, as she breaks apart completely. He is instantly hard.   
  
Harry scowls, noticing hungry eyes continuously glance in her direction where she moves sensuously, like a sultan’s dancing girl. Tonight, he lets himself feel protective, knowing that tomorrow he will not have that luxury. She no longer belongs to him; perhaps she never did, and these fleeting moments of covetousness are all he’s allowed. If he were a stronger man, a better man, he would have long ago given her up completely, ignoring the unfamiliar owls that arrive with only a date and an address looped on parchment in her familiar girly handwriting.  But she is like a force, and he circles around her always, unable to resist her gravitational pull. He should be thankful he’s given even this, and tonight he will be. Tomorrow, when the war continues to destroy everything he’s held dear, he’ll long for her like the dying long for salvation. But she’ll be safe.  
  
Her eyes drift up and lock on him. Harry drains the rest of his ale, and smiles.  
  
*  
  
Like prey caught in the hunter’s eyes, she can feel him, his gaze – dark and greedy – upon her. For a moment she considers pretending she hasn’t felt his pull, but already she is dewy with want, the thump of the music sending rippling shock waves skating along her skin. The kiss of the warm air feels tropical and seductive. She flips her hair behind her shoulder, sending a flash of a smile in his direction, a dare – _come and get me_ – in her eyes.   
  
The cacophony of music and laughter and rising voices becomes a dull roar in her ears; the jostling throng of bodies pressing in on her becomes a blur. Only he is clear, his predatory smile gleaming white as his eyes rest upon her. Warmth floods her, rises with alarming rapidness through her twisting body. She turns then, casting a glance over her shoulder before disappearing into the swarming mass around her.  
  
*  
  
She is swallowed into the crowd like a specter disappearing into the mist. He places his bottle absently on the bar behind him and crushes his cigarette beneath his shoe with a twist of his heel. His eyes stay trained to the spot she has slipped from, as he steadily pushes through the throng of dancers to see a bright exit sign glowing red in the haze of smoky darkness. She’s standing under it, poised for flight on top of an empty staircase. Her teeth flash white through the slash of scarlet on her otherwise pale face, and she turns to make her way down. His eyes stray to the hypnotic sway of her hips. He takes the stairs slowly, playing her game of cat and mouse, letting anticipation settle his gut, finally coming to a halt in a small, dimly lit room.  
  
On the far end, a door swings shut. He moves. They’re below the dance floor now, though the pulse pounding music still ping pongs through his body. He follows her inside; the room, like so many familiar restrooms, is too bright with neon lights and has a layer of grime ground into everything. As his eyes adjust to the white light, she aims her wand at the spot he just entered through, whispering a spell before turning to stare at him with her shoulders pressed against the door, her eyes dark and luminous in her pale, freckled face.  
  
He breathes deeply, watching her cheeks flush, and her familiar flowery scent fills his nostrils. Her eyes are bright, watching him. Her breathing is laboured, breasts straining against their too tight confines. His hands itch to free them, but this is her night, on her terms, as it always must be. He waits.   
  
*  
Ginny pushes herself away from the door and reaches to slide his glasses down his nose, watching his darkening eyes go feral. He sucks in a breath when her fingers touch skin. She is pulled against him instantly, his erection hard, pressed to her stomach. She imagines it will burn her. She is happy to let it.  
  
Her eyes shut as his mouth lowers to her neck, hungry and hot, tongue sliding wetly – ravenous and smooth – against her freckled skin. His fingers probe and search. He is pushing her skirt up, fumbling only slightly, hands curling against thighs, nails scraping as they push her panties aside. A sigh, a smug laugh when he finds her wet.  
  
 _No, not yet, make it last._  
  
She’s pushing him away, scraping his bare stomach as she lifts his shirt and fumbles with his buttons before falling to her knees before him. His head falls back, a gasp, as she eats him up, slurps him like a lolly pop.   
  
*  
  
Her swollen mouth sends a pleasure that is almost pain jolting through his system. Something’s building deep in his gut; he’s not ready for it. She is hot and steady upon him and when he lifts her, returns the favor, she’s candy sweet and dripping. Her skin is strawberry flushed and matches her shining hair that his hands and tongue become lost in it. He slides up her body, pushing in, enveloped in her slick heat.   
  
Hands bruise, curl, search for purchase in her hair, on her hips. Her hands slam down hard against the counter, giving her leverage to push back against him. Her eyes slide shut. He leans forward, whispers, _stay with me_ , against her skin and her eyes open, blurry and half-lidded.

The push and pull seduces him, making him feel safe buried deep within her.  His eyes stay locked upon her gaze, watching, always watching.  She melts in his arms then, like sugared whipped cream. Her cries are low and throaty, drowned by the music above them.  She is like a drug, coursing through his system at an alarming rate, and he lets her overtake him completely until he shatters like glass against her.

He rests his head upon her sweat-soaked skin, letting his breathing calm for a moment, feeling sated and unwilling to leave, although he knows he must.  

*

Her heart thumps wildly while she lets him lean against her, feeling anchored by his warmth and his strength.  All too soon he will move away and she will once again feel adrift.

He finally backs away from her to reach for his glasses and right his clothing.  He will leave her, as he always does, alone in the club with merely a chaste goodbye kiss.  He hands her the panties he pulled away from her earlier, not quite meeting her eyes.

She adjusts her clothing, feeling sated and wholly unsatisfied all at once.  Perhaps, if she were stronger, she would let him disappear from her life for good, but his comfort, even if only physical, is sometimes the only thing keeping her alive on the days when he is absent from her sight.

She no longer pleads with him to stay forever.  His resolve is strong and she has long since grown weary of the arguments, the names he shouts, those he has loved and lost.

She’s lucky, she knows, to have even this much of him.  

He bends to drop a kiss on her cheek, his arms encircle her briefly, tightly, desperately, before he moves away.  With a pop, he Disapparates before her eyes, his goodbye etched upon his face and ringing loudly in the silence.

Left alone, Ginny Apparates to her modest flat.  She no longer allows herself the luxury of hot tears, only the luxury of hope that one day – perhaps one day soon – she will have him for good, completely.

End 

 


End file.
